The Brooklynization of Uncle Steve continues as I find a better product, a better meal, a better conversation and all around better attitude there. I hit Union Pool yet again, and caught Dead Stars- a fabulous band. Cousins Jaye Moore on drums and Jeff Moore on guitar are legendary in Japan, so I'm told, from their previous band, Orange Park. Jon Watterberg plays bass. They were absolutely brilliant. You know a rock band is solid when you’re hearing their set for the first time and the songs catch you. Afterward we all hung outside by the wood burning fire pit and talked rock n' roll hootchie-coo. I am so tired of the jaded haters and wannabes who have taken over the Manhattan club scene that I retreat to Brooklyn constantly to hang out with homogeneous hipsters wearing variations of the same plaid. At least there’s good conversation and an unending supply of said hipsters. Everywhere I go there is a party. I bought a Diet Coke at Union Pool and they charged me a buck. The only thing you get for a buck in a Manhattan joint is a wrapped white mint from the bathroom attendant.

The snow came down like in Zhivago, a beautifully white biblical level disaster that wiped out streets and most of nightlife. A coincidence-- the pleas of two beautiful women--tore me from my home and hearth. Proceeding the girlish pleas, bartender and muse Sara Copeland and photographer/filmmaker/bon vivant H. Spencer Young called me. They had been at the Vanity Fair event at the IAC building. They gushed of Maggie Gyllenhaal, Kehinde Wiliey and the cast of Green Day’s American Idiot braving the elements to be there. Somehow the event was crowded. Afterwards, they joined me by the fire and we smoked cheap cigars and watched Big Love reruns until the call of the wild, wild blizzard and a need for meatballs drove us into the beauty. We walked over to the Meatball Shop devirginizing the snow and throwing balls of fluff at taxi cabs. We ate hardy fare and root beer. It was then that the phone pleas started.

The New Seven-Card Studs: Year after year, Hollywood ushers in a fresh crop of young heartthrobs, with the promise of turning extras into “It Boys” (many of whom turn to Promises treatment center just short of their 15 minutes). Here, actors Hunter Parrish, Sebastian Stan and Jonathan Groff raise the stakes, bet the house and play for keeps. By Nick Haramis